Childish belief
by AryYuna
Summary: "Dean jerked up, gasping as if he'd run for miles, trembling as if naked in the snow. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and shivered. He'd tried to fall asleep for hours, and the quiet, the calm were driving him crazy." Set after 10x14.


_Hmm… this fic wasn't supposed to exist. I have nine fics in my wip folder and I can't bring myself to continue them, but this story just wrote itself. At night. While I was desperately trying to sleep._

_I blame episode 10x14. Throw Carver out and give showrunner role to the guy that wrote 10x14!_

_Oh, just so you know, I googled Lebanon, Kansas, and it's a 200 people town and there're no woods with hidden bunkers. That's what happens when you try to make rainy Canada look like Kansas XD_

**Disclaimer:**_ unfortunately, SPN doesn't belong to me. If it did… well, I would meet Jensen Ackles e Jared Padalecki, which would be veeeery good, and there would be someone reminding the authors about _canon_…_

_I apologize for my English; it's not my first language and I don't have a beta-reader. If you find any mistakes, please let me know and I'll see to fix them._

_You can find this story in Italian here: __efpfanficDOTnetSLASHviewstoryDOTphp?sid=3072254_

* * *

**Childish belief**

The Mark screamed. It was hungry, it needed to be fed.

Dean tossed and turned in his bed, unable to find peace from the constant and painful throbbing of the demonic symbol on his arm; unable to escape its demanding shrieks. _Feed me. Feed me. Feed me._

He couldn't sleep. He was tired, but the adrenaline coursing his body prevented him from falling asleep, prevented his mind from forgetting even for a few hours the horror that was his future.

_Feed me. Feed me. Feed me._

I can't, Dean thought. I won't give in.

But his resolve was slowly waning. Skin damp, breath laboured, Dean knew he'd give in soon; he didn't want to, but he knew it was gonna happen. And the only person he could take his need – the Mark's need, not his, _the Mark's_ – for blood out on was…

_Feed me. Feed me._

_«And then would come the murder you'd never survive, the one that would finally turn you into as much of a savage as it did me. Your brother, Sam.»_

NO!

Dean jerked up, gasping for air as if he'd run for miles, trembling as if naked in the snow. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and shivered. He'd been trying to fall asleep for hours, and the quiet, the calm were driving him crazy. He needed to move, to _do something_. He got up and groped around for his shoes and jacket, found the keys for the Impala among the books and papers – his useless research – covering the desk; once ready, he all but ran through the bunker, desperate for fresh air, for something to distract him from the Mark's voice that kept screaming. _Feed me. Feed me. Feed me._

_Feed me your brother's blood._

He didn't take the Impala. He knew his head wasn't clear enough to drive and didn't want to risk to hurt his baby – and some innocent pedestrian. He headed for the dirt road that led away from the town, hoping that being away from any form of human life would make him forget his thirst for blood.

But the quiet only amplified the Mark's call.

He wandered through the wood surrounding the bunker, walking fast as if he had a direction in mind; Cain's voice was in his ears, the pain in his arm preventing him from thinking; and then he saw a movement among the trees. He stopped, the echo of his blood coursing through his veins – through the Mark – drowned everything else. And then he wasn't aware of anything anymore.

* * *

Sam started awake, and for a long moment wondered why: the alarm clock hadn't gone off, his bladder was empty, he didn't smell coffee. But his heart beat like crazy, hairs stood up on his tingly skin, all senses alert to catch the smallest change.

His mind got rid of the last traces of sleep, and Sam got up slowly, the gun he kept under his pillow firmly in his hand, pointed at the door.

"Dean?" he called stepping out in the corridor, sure that, even asleep, his brother would hear him and come running. But only silence met his voice. Confused, gun still raised and ready, he approached his brother's room, finding it empty, the bed unmade, boots and keys missing.

Purposefully – _and panicked, Sam, admit it_ – he turned around and walked pass the dormitory area through the kitchen, the library, the map room.

And froze on the spot, his breath cut short, eyes wide open, incredulous. Scared.

"Dean?" he asked in a soft voice.

His brother stood next to the staircase he'd just descended, a hand still on the banister as if it were the only thing keeping him upright, eyelids heavy, pupils blown, breath short. And blood, blood everywhere.

The déjà-vu made Sam dizzy. He opened and closed his mouth twice before managing to make a sound.

Dean looked up at him slowly, as if it took a herculean effort.

"It's not mine," he whispered, and to Sam it was like a an ice shower; cause his brother wasn't holding any weapon, but there was blood on his hands, under his fingernails, _on his teeth_.

"Okay. It's… It's okay," he breathed as if he were approaching a pride of hungry lions, but he was actually addressing himself, was trying to tell himself there was something still okay, somewhere.

He left the gun on the table and took a shaking step forward, his hand raised to placate the other man; but there was nothing to placate, Dean looked barely able to stand, let alone attack – attack _him_ – and still Sam couldn't help being _afraid_.

"It's okay, Dean," he quietly repeated, his voice broken by the horror and despair he felt in his throat.

Dean didn't move. He was barely breathing.

Sam was at his side; he put a hand on his brother's shoulder, and Dean lowered his eyes, unable to look at him so closely.

There were cuts and scrapes on Dean's face and hands, tears in his jacket and shirt underneath.

And how horrific was that Sam hoped part of that blood was his big brother's? That the innocent the Mark had taken his rage out on wasn't that innocent – that he'd tried to hurt Dean, that _did_ hurt him, before the hunter could tear him apart with his bare hands?

Sam tightened his grip on his brother's shoulder; he grasped onto that hope while he reached his other hand to the other man's face; he raised it toward the light to examine it, look for a reassurance that wasn't there.

"C'mon," he said softly moving his grip to his brother's arm to support and guide him to a chair. Dean stumbled a little, but Sam prevented him from falling.

Whatever happened, Sam would be at his side, preventing him from falling.

"I'm gonna fetch the first aid kit, okay? You wait here," he said, but Dean's eyes got wide as if in panic. "I'm gonna be right back, Dean. Just to the bathroom and back."

But Dean shook his head feverishly, his green eyes suddenly too big for his face, to bright among all that blood.

"Okay. Okay, Dean. We'll go together, alright?" Sam tried to calm him, feeling him tremble under his hands. He slowly guided his brother towards the corridor that led to the private quarters of the bunker, and at every step Dean got heavier, leaned a little more on him. They weren't even halfway when his knees buckled and Sam found himself holding all their weight.

"It's okay, Dean," he whispered again to his brother's ear, sitting him gently on the floor, holding him close. Dean didn't answer. Sam breathed deeply, disturbed by his brother's passiveness – his brother's weakness.

It was like after his battle with Cain, when Dean had all but collapsed in his arms, emptied, weakened both in his body and mind by that long fight against the first Knight of Hell – against _himself_. Sam was disoriented, scared: that wasn't Dean; Dean was a rock, an unshakable certainty, a stable and immutable reference point. Seeing him defeated – by something _inside him_ – was _blasphemous_.

Sam traded his fingers through his brother's hair, constantly muttering empty reassurances without even being aware.

Sam hated having to be the strong one. Albeit he'd fought a long time to prove his worth, like it was _normal_ for little brothers in _normal_ families, he hated being forced by the circumstances into that role; cause it meant Dean – the big brother, the _hero_ – was defeated. And the hero couldn't be defeated. Especially not by himself.

"It's okay," he said again, clenching his teeth and sliding his free arm under his brother's knees; he stood up, lifting Dean as if he weighted nothing – _wrong, wrong, it was all wrong_ – and carried him to the bathroom at the end of the corridor to wash away the blood from his face, clean his wounds, take care of his big brother.

_Wrong, wrong_.

Dean suffered his brother's ministration in silence, eyes lowered and full of shame; Sam kept babbling comforting words he was sure his brother wasn't hearing; and, though full of guilt, he was happy to find two of the wounds needed stitches – it meant Dean had been attacked, it hadn't been just homicidal rage, his opponent had had a chance, albeit small.

When he'd tied the last stitch and cut the residual thread, Dean's breath had evened out, and Sam dared to ask him what happened.

The older man closed his eyes.

"I didn't want to kill you," he only answered, and Sam wanted to cry: _because of him_, once again, his brother was hurting, and because of him an innocent… "I went in the woods. So I wouldn't hurt anyone," his brother surprisingly continued in a soft voice. He put his hand in his intact jacket pocket and took the keys to the Impala. "I wanted to take the car, but… but I don't know what I would've done if I'd met someone. Take them, Sam. Please," he begged, lacking the courage to look at the younger man.

Sam couldn't talk. He was torn between shame, for thinking his brother could really hurt a human being, and the knowledge it wasn't his brother he was doubting. Rationally, he knew all that blood had to come from somewhere, and hoping Dean would be able to beat the Mark alone was crazy and childish.

Dean had to understand the reason for Sam's silence, cause he finally looked up at his little brother with a rueful smile.

"A herd of deers," he said. "I guess animalists would hate me all the same, but at least… it wasn't you," he finished in a broken voice, looking back down at his hands.

Finding the keys still there, he reached them to his brother again. Sam took that piece of Dean, aware of the meaning of that act, the importance of that sacrifice, and gave in to the childish belief his brother really was invincible.

He sandwiched his older brother's hand in his own, amazed, like many times since he'd passed even his father in height, at how small it was compared to Sam's; and how big nonetheless Dean was to him; his brother finally raised his head and looked at his eyes.

Sam didn't say anything. He let his actions speak for him. He smiled.

* * *

_A little sappy. But I loved episode 10x14 and it made me crave angst and protective!Sam – and I wanted Sam carrying Dean in his arms, cause it's like my biggest kink XD_


End file.
